It still remains baffling to Dean why Declan approached him. He’s an unremarkable person. Always has been. Unless counting his unfortunate conditions, but that’s something the famed Irishman knows nothing of. It was something Dean had tried desperately to conceal from classmates during uni when he first moved to this country. He’d spent too much of his initial years explaining, apologising, and being totalised into a walking joke and problem rather than a human being. Even his parents had struggled to see him as more than just a child in need of constant protection. Yet it was repeated exposure that allowed his body to strengthen itself against the things that wanted to destroy and countless trials and error in treatment and medications, surgeries both exploratory and necessary in order for Dean to survive as long as he has.
So what could have possibly drawn Declan is beyond the Brit’s comprehension but he forces himself to stop examining and doubting it for the time being.
“Books have always been the best companions,” Dean answers. “A form of escape that consumes the mind more than the telly or video games can. And I always had a unique experience with books.”
The librarian, uncertain whether to explain further or not, doesn’t notice the sidewalk where the cement has been pushed up, exposed and ready to trip up any unaware traveller. His foot catches the edge and Dean tumbles to the ground, scraping a palm as he lets go of his bike handles to catch himself and his form of transportation crashes to the ground beside him.
Admittedly, Declan always did seem to gravitate toward those shy and wounded. He wasn’t sure why and never really gave the topic much thought. Perhaps, without being really aware of it, he was just searching for the version of himself he’d lost as a boy. The timid lad full of wonder and fantastical dreams, consumed by countless adventures and tales he’d experienced in the pages of books. Searching for a place to belong. Searching for his mother and himself in the many characters he’d come across.
Now, he no longer looks. He doesn’t find himself or his mother in the stories he reads. He’s grown more cynical and detached to such childish notions. The Irishman idly nods along to Dean’s initial reply, agreeing with his follow-up statement as well. “Ye an’ meself both, Dean-o. Nothing’s quite like losin’ yerself in a grand story, yeah?” He flashes the Brit another dazzling smile, finding himself more and more comfortable alongside him, conversing with him, enjoying his company. It was nice, easy, and not at all forced.
The next few moments are a whirlwind as Dean trips and his bike clatters upon the ground. “Oi!” Declan exclaims, moving to crouch beside the man. “Easy mate. Ye alright?” He extends a hand toward the other to aid him if he needs it, unsure one way or the other.
Phone calls were made. Strings pulled. Favours collected. Forms signed.
Dean is prepared to bring about change the moment life looks like it will fail Declan. Because Dean will fight the threat of Doctor-predicted death time and time again. Now it’s someone else he gets to fight fore and he won’t give an inch where his boyfriend is concerned.
After all the space, Dean finally gets a unethical call from a nurse within minutes of Declan Tierney’s admission to the hospital with rapidly declining health. It is Dean’s mother and father who bring him to the hospital.
“Please, don’t stray from this–Mother.” Dean’s gaze penetrates the woman in question who still cannot stop wringing her hands weeks after agreeing to this.
The woman nods despite the thin line her lips make pressed so tightly together and Dean enters the hospital through a back employee entrance. Greeted by an RN pulled into this orchestrated transplant manipulation, the woman quickly runs Dean through the preparations as they pump their legs toward the surgical wing where the Brit has a private room for prep.
“And the donor liver is already here or on its very-near way, correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Miller. It’s being collected from the roof now and the neighbouring ORs are being prepped. All we need now is you to be ready to go.”
Dean is ready. More than ready. It’s not the first time he’s gone under the knife for a liver transplant. It is the first time he’s willingly used his family’s wealth and influence to get himself a last minute liver transplant by lying about his condition. All in order to give his current healthy and functioning liver–donated to him ten years ago–to his boyfriend, unconscious and unable to refuse the offer. They are matching blood types and Dean has found that there is something and someone he is willing to pull out all the stops for.
“Lets do this.” Dean’s words are confidently spoken as he’s prepped with an IV and wheeled to an operating room.
Ten minutes later he’s sleeping under the knife while his parents await Declan in his room to greet him when he awakes from this monumentally underhanded organ swap surgery.
Of all the things Declan has endured in his life, this has been by far the worst and most difficult chapter. They say the final is the hardest. How does one conclude a life? Especially when it’s coming to a close so soon. He was supposed to have a lifetime to make up for his mistakes. To make new memories. To finish what he’d started.
After that last night with Dean, he knew. There was more, so much more he wanted of the man, with the man. He loved him. Tears came unabashedly after the door closed behind him, streaming down his cheeks freely and silently. The Irishman only released a sob when his quivering lip could no longer contain it, and his entire weary body was wracked with the intensity of it until oblivion took mercy - or pity - on him.
He wanted nothing more than to be held in the arms of the very man he essentially banished. Declan was afraid to die alone. Afraid of the unknown. Afraid his early check-out would be letting people down again. Afraid that he may have done more harm than good in his life. Afraid that Dean would never know just how much he means to him. Just how special and lovable he really is, not a walking medical problem.
Another time, another life - they could be happy. And it’s the only thought Declan clings to as his condition progressively worsens. He winds up in the hospital within weeks, liver shutting down on him with a speed and finality the Irishman wasn’t expecting.
He gets his legal and business affairs in order, and he waits. Waits to die hooked up to several noisy machines with wires to indicate every little decline and fluctuation of his fragile, failing body, life.
Then a miracle happens. While he wasn’t at the top of the list, he wasn’t at the bottom either. A donor liver was located after a major crash an the organ was put on ice and airlifted from another hospital. Declan was prepped and under the knife. Only to wake up and find his body quickly rejecting the new organ. That was it. The last flicker of hope he had snuffed out.
When it came to the surgery, to the inevitable end soon to follow, he allowed the doctors to contact his sister and she dropped everything to be there. Neither had any idea of what was to come, only that there wasn’t much time. Declan’s quality of life was poor at best. He hardly had any energy in him, fight all but gone. It was only a matter of time, likely a short period of it too.
Then, another surgery. One unbeknownst to him or his sister. It was all happening so fast, like a whirlwind.
Declan is right about one thing, he’d never expected or remotely anticipated this. So preoccupied with his own eventual death, Dean had never imagined being in a relationship and facing the impending death of his lover. Not in all his years. Yet now, he’s facing just that.
But it doesn’t mean he is going to just sit and watch Declan deteriorate without being there for him. Not a chance.
“I’m not forgiving you because there’s nothing to forgive,” Dean insists as he reaches out and takes the Irishman’s hands between his own. He’s much thinner. His hair has lost much of its life and more importantly–and frightening–is the lost of gleam in Declan’s blue eyes. “If I was upset that this happened do you think I’d be here right now? Look at me, Declan.”
There a kindling fire in Dean’s voice as he presses close to Declan, his gaze not moving from the other man’s face. “I’ve been scared before. I was told I wouldn’t live beyond the age of 3, then it was 10, then 16. My heart has stopped more times than I can count. I have a ticking in my chest. And I’ve put myself in the hospital knowing I made myself sick by my actions. But I didn’t beat the odds to get to this point, to be with you, only to watch you give up now. I’m not going anywhere just because you’re sick. How many times have you stuck around when I got the flu or pneumonia? More than once? I’ve faced death before so I’m not going to run away so easily. I’ll face it with you.”
He waited too long. Back when it was just himself that he needed to worry about, he didn’t care much. He was in denial and skipped doctor appointments and declined other alternatives. But everything’s different now and he waited too long. The hopes of finding a liver in time to save him now were slim to none. What a fool he was.
Dean is adamant about Declan’s sorrowful pleas for forgiveness, claiming there’s nothing to forgive. Yet the Irishman can’t help but feel sorry for knowingly putting the Brit in this position. Hasn’t he suffered enough in his life? He doesn’t need this to deal with too. He ignores the other man’s demand for him to look at him. He can’t bear it. He doesn’t want to lose it. He doesn’t want to break down. Unfortunately he doesn’t seem to realize, he’s already broken. He’s always been broken somehow.
Sick. Declan huffs that bitter laugh again, shaking his head and still refusing to look Dean in the eye. Sick implies one can get better. There’s no getting better from this. He won’t just wake up one day to find he’d beaten it. There’s no pill or treatment for a dying organ. There’s only waiting...for the slight possibility of getting a replacement. Not a brand new part, like for a car. But a used part some poor soul no longer needs anymore. Because they’re dead for one reason or another. Someone has to die for Declan to live. There’s no match with the people he knows that would be willing to donate a piece. No. He’s on a list waiting for someone else to die first.
“I’m a recoverin’ alcoholic, Dean. I’m not first on the transplant list. I’m hardly a contender. There are much more deservin’ and legitimately ill individuals waitin’. Likely waitin’ far longer an’ battling far worse conditions than myself. Do ya really wanna just stand by and watch me die?” He finally brings his gaze to the other’s, his own shining with unshed tears. “You ‘ave to go.”
Nodding along as he listens to Declan’s answers to his inquiries, Dean enjoys hearing the Irishman explain his musical origins. He likes learning about people in general. He’s always been a far better listener than speaker, himself so understanding people came naturally. The number of times he’s had to explain his health situations to complete strangers, the countless stays in hospitals; sometimes the only relief was in finally getting to be quiet and listen rather than have to talk.
“I’m sure it’s nice to be able to honour your mother through music,” Dean replies as he navigates his bike around passersby. Unintentionally steering himself into closer proximity to his walking companion. “It seems like you were born to be on the stage–to be in the spotlight. It’s always nice to discover your place.”
It took Dean far too long to discover his place. When you have a short life expectancy you tend not to find much solace in any community. His parents had forbid him to play sports or an instrument; to perform in any way, shape, or form. He wasn’t even allowed to date as he got older. A place in the world seems rather bleak when there’s no one to share it with.
It’s that passing thought that prompts Dean’s next question, tumbling from his lips entirely without his permission. “What made you approach me back at the bar? Why did you follow me when I left?”
Declan nods absentmindedly, thoughts elsewhere - on his mother. It had been ages since he properly thought of her, not since he was writing of her loving smile and soothing voice. It felt like a lifetime and not just a summer ago. Even though he’d revealed her to the world in an indirect way, he still felt like that part of his life was secret in some small way. Very few asked questions of the mother in the story, gone early on, much too soon for Declan’s taste. Even when certain questions were posed, he managed to skirt them with brief answers that actually didn’t do much to answer the actual question. Declan’s a master of words and masks and smoke and mirrors, it seems.
He looks over to the man suddenly. “Ye think so? I love performin’.” He smiles, more to himself than anything else. There seems to be more swagger to his step at the compliment. For the longest time, Declan didn’t know what he was born for. He only caused trouble and ran from things. He never imagined he’d make anything of himself. Yet here he was. Successful with a decent amount of notoriety from his accomplishments. He’d make many mistakes, sure. But he would now leave something behind, a legacy in the form of a story. His story, whether anyone really knew it or not.
“What made ya fall in love with books?” The Irishman asks in return, curious about the other’s career choice. Declan was passionate about books just as much as music. He’d be lost without one or the other.
“I’m not entirely sure, mate. I think initially it was the recognition from the event. We hadn’t even spoken and there ya were. I thought I’d take a chance - an’ that arse ditchin’ you gave me the opportunity.” He admits with a slight pink blush on his cheeks. Once upon a time he’d only be so bold while intoxicated but he no longer has liquid courage. He has to conjure his own.
There’s a genuine grin that spreads on Dean’s face as he takes hold of the handles of his bike and pushes it along his side. Even if he has the wrong idea, which he’s confident he does, it’s nice to be walking homeward with someone for company. Normally he leaves a date as alone as he was when he arrived.
“Yes.” It’s easier to talk without stammering too much when he can focus on the path ahead of them rather than right at the other man. “Books and computers. And bikes. And you’re a musician as well as an author. As you said at the event–stories are powerful things.”
He really should shut up. Chance the subject. Something that suggests he hasn’t been paying attention. Dean mentally reminds himself not to mention that he’d followed the local news on the other man’s event at NYU, curious to see what was said. Even a few of his students had been there in the crowd without his prompting and they’d been talking about their thoughts on the experience the following day in class. Dean had listened–some may call it eavesdropping. He was curious, that’s all. It’s not every day a classmate becomes a famous author seemingly overnight. Instead of embarrassing himself further, Dean deflects away from himself by following up with, “What brought you to playing music and performing?”
Declan catches a flash of Dean’s smile out of the corner of his eye as they turn to walk together. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s what he sees. He hopes that’s what it was. Because that would make his instincts correct about Dean. He hopes he is. He wants to be right about him. The Irishman is thinking far too much about this, about him. He needs to stop. He takes turns paying attention to his feet on the sidewalk and what’s ahead of him. Gazing everywhere but at the Brit.
His vague reply has Declan smiling cutely to himself, smitten by the other’s adorable awkwardness. He did always have a fondness for the shy, modest ones. The goofy ones. He was doomed the moment he sat down across from him. No, probably the moment that wanker abandoned him for an easy lay instead. Git.
The Irishman misses a step, falling behind a moment as he’s caught off-guard by what Dean says. Quoting him: “As you said at the event–’stories are powerful things.’” Declan’s jaw goes slack, hanging agape slightly in his astonishment. He was right! He had to be! The thought excites him but he keeps it to himself, at least he hopes he contains it. Upon being asked a question, he’s relieved to focus on something else. “My Ma, actually. Before she died.” He blurts out and almost regrets doing so the very next moment. He’d never opened up to someone about his childhood before so quickly. He rarely talks about his parents, his birth parents. His sister. Where he’s from. Declan keeps a veil over his life prior to NY, carefully sidestepping and manipulating information to his benefit. Erasing the parts of his past he wished he could forget, the most painful parts that shaped the bulk of his adult life. Almost ruining him.
“Performin’ started as an accident, actually. My buds have a band that they started back in secondary school when we were just lads. I went to see ‘em perform in battle of the bands one night. Music labels were supposed to be scoutin’ talent at the gig. The guitarist broke his arm messen about in his car tryin’ to impress some lasses in the parkin’ lot before sound check. They begged me to take his place...I was a nervous wreck but it was one of the most exhileratin’ feelings of me life. I fell in love with performing right there an’ then.” He just couldn’t seem to stop talking - sharing no less - about him. It felt easy, comfortable in a way with this man he’d hardly known at all.
You would think a man adjusted to silence, comfortable in it, would have no trouble with the silence of his ill boyfriend. Dean understands it. The processing, the internal struggle; he’d been told it for the first time and he’d crawled into a shell of himself and refused to open up for anyone. It took months. It’s a surprise that his parents hadn’t bubbled him up then. And when Declan cast him out of his room throughout all the tests, it hurt. It did. But Dean took it. He would take anything because it’s a terrifying time and he can’t force Declan to come to terms on a timetable other than the man’s own.
The fear settles in when Declan gets released and still doesn’t welcome him back to his flat immediately. The limbo of the unknown throws Dean into a fit of anxiety as he fret over the possibility that Declan no longer wants him in his life. Having a sickly boyfriend does seem like an omen for illness to become a fixture in a person’s life, wouldn’t it?
And when he finally is welcome at Declan’s, the Irishman immediately offers an apology. Blinking, Dean crosses the room and settles himself right beside Declan with a shake of his head. “I’d suspected it but didn’t want to question you without prompting. But that doesn’t change anything. I refuse to blame you and I’m not forgiving you because there’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Declan’s head is bowed, even after Dean joins him on the couch and offers reassurance. He doesn’t want it. He shakes his head in response, mouth pressed into a thin line, angry. With himself. “I thought I’d ‘ave more time. I wanted more..” His voice trails off, stomach twisting with a sickening feeling. He doesn’t want to die. A year ago he thought he would come to accept it easily when the time came. Perhaps before he met Dean he might have handled it better. But now he has something, someone to live for again.
“Bet ya never thought this would happen, didya boyo?” He huffs a small laugh, bitter and ironic, his blue gaze flitting to the other man’s briefly. The Irishman quickly looks away again, ashamed. He’s torn between sending Dean away - making it easier before things get worse, for who though he isn’t exactly certain - and clinging desperately to the Brit until the very end. Liver failure is a painful way to go. He already feels weaker and weary most of the time. He’s begun to work from home, foregoing even stepping into the office a lot of days and just doing conference calls as needed as well as using his laptop and even messengers to send and receive certain documents. Sometimes he doesn’t even have the energy to get much done. His job is aware of his circumstances and he can’t really bare to face his coworkers, but he’s not ready to leave it yet. He’s not ready to leave at all.
But he craves the distraction. He doesn’t want pity and dreads any physical interaction because he looks terrible. He’s been losing weight gradually over the last few months, cheeks slightly gaunt now. He’s become alarming pale with his progressed condition. He has visible dark circles under his tired eyes and they’ve lost the bright gleam they’d usually carried. The creases in his forehead and frown lines are much more prominent, aging him far beyond his years. His hands have become shaky and weak, making him clumsy. He’s spent some time playing, when his fingers will cooperate enough to do so.
“I’m scared Dean.” Declan whispers, wiping his hands in his lap. “I don’t wanna die.” His voice breaks a little and he shudders, fighting back his emotions, holding it all in. Declan Tierney rarely shows weakness. “I’ve made so many mistakes, I jus’...I thought I’d ‘ave time to fix things. To be better than I was before.” He clears his throat. “Don’t get me wrong, Dean. I’m not apologizin’ for dyin’, it’s me own fault. No, I’m just sorry ye ‘ave to be a party to it.. That I gave ye false hope for somethin’.. I don’t wanna go. Especially now that-” He cuts himself off and takes a breath in an attempt to ground himself. “I...forgive me.”
01. avicii WAKE ME UP; 02. ellie goulding MY BLOOD; 03. taped rai SHADOW OF THE SUN; 04. jason walker ECHO; 05. the enemies PERFECT STRANGER; 06. bastille SLEEPSONG; 07. the smiths ASLEEP; 08. the sea of cortez THE SHORES; 09. imagine dragons BLEEDING OUT; 10. starset MY DEMONS; 11. incubus ABSOLUTION CALLING; 12. civil twilight HUMAN; 13. dirty heads SOUND OF CHANGE; 14. safetysuit FIND A WAY; 15. bastille SKULLS; 16. imagine dragons RADIOACTIVE;
He can feel it. Something is wrong. He stops in his tracks, some sort of surreal reality setting in. Everything slows down and all he can focus on is the sharp pain in his breast. He’d been ignoring the creeping signs for quite some time. The change in his appetite and occasional bout of vomiting. The sudden yet fleeting disorientation that would overcome him sporadically. His liver was slowly failing.
Clutching his chest his face contorts into that of near-agony, lips parting with a hushed cry as it feels like a dagger is being driven into him and he collapses. The last thing he’s aware of before he loses consciousness is the wailing of sirens, the cool and rigid feeling of the hard ground beneath him. Strangers had come to his aid, onlookers actively wondered what was happening, making emergency calls.
And then it’s dark and quiet and he doesn’t feel a thing.
“You’re going to die, Mr. Tierney.”
The words are stuck on a seemingly infinite loop in his head. He knew what it was like to die. Well, he knew what it was like to be brought back and informed that he’d indeed died. It was only a matter of time before it would come back to claim him for good. It was inevitable, he knew. He just hoped it would be much later with Dean in his life.
This was precisely why attachments were dangerous. If he wasn’t the one being hurt, he was instead doing the hurting himself. Whether he meant it or not didn’t matter to him, he was responsible nevertheless. They're going to lose each other, just like they’d each lost before.
He thought he’d have more time. To make things right. To leave behind a legacy better than what he’d ultimately started. He’d only just begun and already his mistakes were catching up to him in the worst way possible: finality.
The smile of relief on Dean’s face as he opened his eyes was enough to fill the Irishman with hope - false hope as it turned out to be.
Dean doesn’t deserve this. He’s suffered enough. He never should have gotten close. He’s so selfish and it’s the one trait he can never seem to escape. The one trait that does the most harm in the end. Declan hates it. He hates that he has to hurt another person he’s come to care for. He hates that he was too weak to just keep to himself and wither away alone like he should have, unable to destroy another’s happiness again.
When he awoke to find where he was and what had happened and what was to come, he didn’t react. He was numb. He knew it would be coming at some point. There was no way he could come out of what he’d done to himself unscathed. His liver was failing. He needed a new one. His circumstances were less than desirable on the transplant list. He wasn’t a priority.
“You’re going to die, Mr. Tierney. Soon. Unless we can find you a replacement.”
He doesn’t speak a word to the doctor. Merely nods his understanding and refuses to look at Dean though he can feel his prying eyes on him, concerned, questioning, afraid. He knew. Declan knew it would come to this. He hadn’t told Dean. They’d spoken of some of the things in his book. Drinking himself to death hadn’t been among those discussions. They both seemed careful to avoid their fates, knowingly. Still, it was now a topic to discuss. Unpleasant as it may be. He stays silent until oblivion overcomes him again.
The remainder of his time in the hospital is spent undergoing tests and being poked by needles and he refuses all visitors, Dean included.
When he’s finally home, he lets Dean come over, but his guilt and shame keeps him quiet for the most part. He sits on his couch staring at the wall opposite him, fighting the urge to scream, to curse and throw things and cry. Why? Why now? Why when he finally has a chance to do things differently, right, as he’d been trying so hard to do, was he nearing the end? He’d only just begun.
“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out small, trembling as he clamps his mouth shut after uttering the words. Begging forgiveness with his remorseful tone. “I know we never went into great detail about the events in my book. Most don’t know it’s my life. Some speculate it’s only partly true or meant to add drama for the sake of writin’ a good story. It’s all true though. Every last thing happened just as it was written. I did this to meself, Dean. An’ I dragged you into it when I shouldn’t ‘ave. It wasn’t fair to do to you. I’m so sorry, love.”
As soon as Declan brings up the event, Dean’s cheeks flush a soft hue of pink and he hopes it’s not noticeable in the evening street light. Of course he was there. It had been hosted in his library and he wasn’t about to abandon his post because a handsome young author was back in the city after touring. But he’d done his best to keep out of the way, not to speak to anyone, especially not Declan Tierney himself. He was a simply bystander, there due to convenient circumstances. Not that he hadn’t been curious and interested in the event or the speaker–but that was entirely besides the point.
“I–um–yes well I work there. At that particular library that is,” Dean answers, suddenly incapable of meeting the Irishman’s gaze. Instead he grips onto the body of his bike and thinks about how he hadn’t yet gotten them the last lock off yet. “I mean, I also teach as an assistant professor for NYU’s computer science department. I do both. So yes–well I was there. It was a great talk you gave and all.”
Dean finally crouches back down to finish unwinding the encased chain from his bike and holds the transportation steady as he rises back to his full height and quickly considers what should happen next.
“Are you–you know–heading the same direction as me? I don’t have to ride. I can walk.”
“Oh.” So he was there. But it was his job to be there, actually. Maybe his instincts were wrong about the Brit after all. He’d always been perceptive in the past though. Upon being told the truth of the man’s presence at the event, Declan is seized with a creeping disappointment, gradually taking over and settling in. He’d almost hoped it was by choice. Perhaps he was wrong about this entire encounter. He should just drop this whole ridiculous notion. Except they’re both heading eastward.
It was a great talk, the words echo in his ears. Had he really been listening or is he just being polite now? Declan can no longer tell. He's so different from the man he’d used to be, he no longer trusts himself. At least, he believes himself and his life to be different. He’s more careful, reserved, doubtful. He’d lost many of the things that made him who he was, he’s now discovering parts of himself he’s unfamiliar with. Fear is a powerful tool, weapon, emotion.
Suddenly that seed of hope previously planted in him begins to stir again as the man offers to walk instead of ride, assuming they’re traveling the same way - which Declan already knows they are: east. “Sure, mate.” He gives the man a small smile though it falters at the end. “Books and computers, eh?” He offers sincerely, trying to make conversation so awkward silence doesn’t stretch between them.
Dean has always been told he’s obtuse. Perhaps it’s because he was sheltered as a child, his parents clinging to him like leeches and refusing to give him the chance to fight for himself. Now as he stares, baffled at Declan Tierney, he begins to question if he’s being flirted with. Or…pursued? He can’t tell. He never really can. Especially considering how his date just went tonight.
“I-uh-,” Dean privately curses himself for feeling the stammer surface, “-um-I was headed–headed eastward.” He points in the general direction of his flat and then frowns more deeply at the question posed at him. He was where? Incapable of following from the conversation they’d briefly carried inside the bar to the second installment now, Dean blinks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where you think I was. I was in the bar, yes.”
Declan had been trying to hide a timid smile when it suddenly widened in amusement as Dean stammers. The Irishman finds it adorable. Though his demeanor suddenly shifts to a more serious and shy tone as he poses his question, his curiosity. It had been Dean there, hadn’t it? He’d been there and known who he was. Remembered him. Something told Decan it wasn’t just a friendly coincidence. Not with the man’s behavior. But why was he so keen to know?
The Brit really was that clueless. Clearing his throat he shifts on his feet, somewhat uneasy. “My event at NYU a few weeks back. You were there..” The Irishman murmurs, afraid he was admitting too much himself. He didn’t notice people. He wasn’t supposed to notice people anymore. Attachments of any kind only led to heartbreak in the end. Noticing anyone in the crowd was dangerous. Especially after feeling lonely for a year...and a lifetime before that year had even begun. He’d only really gotten a taste of what it could be like, to actually be with someone else. He averts his gaze downward and scratches his head awkwardly.
Loss. It wasn’t commonly experienced by the Irishman, not since he was only a lad dressed in black attending his mother’s funeral. His father’s death had been so different, but both had gone by in a blur. Like walking through a haze you’re just waiting to wake from. For most of his life since he was young, he’d lived by the belief that keeping people at arm’s length meant not getting hurt. Eliminating the chance. Being self reliant meant not giving anyone power over him. He told himself he could be happy that way. A mantra chanted each day he woke up. Tell yourself something long enough and you eventually come to believe it. You don’t need anyone. You’re better off alone. You’re not good enough. Not worth it. Though he came to find that loneliness was a deep, dark pit you couldn’t fill with any amount of meaningless endeavors. It eventually consumed him. No man is an island.
The months that followed his father’s death dragged on, each day passing with an almost unbearable awareness - that once again, Declan had lost. He was coping with a series of them continually threatening to overwhelm him, to drag him under the current. He wasn’t sure how to feel or how to move on. Where to go. What to do. The sting of grief was just as apparent in adulthood as it had been in his childhood. But it was different somehow. He was older, had seen and experience more. Knew more. It was still a toxic mixture of pain and anger. He thought growing up meant gaining the ability to change things, to be in control - and to a certain extent it did. Just not enough. Declan was still a boy grasping at straws, trying desperately to obtain what was out of his reach. Afraid of the dark. Running away. Hiding. Pretending. He’d screwed everything up. Perhaps the life he’d suddenly come to desire, to crave, wasn’t the life for him after all. Everyone got dealt a different hand. Maybe what he now wanted just wasn’t in the cards he’d been given.
When summer rolled around, the Irishman decided it was time to finally return to the place he was born. To his heritage. To the house he’d left more than eighteen years ago. It was passed on to he and Emma jointly. He never thought he’d set foot in it again. It was his first stop, to get himself and Max settled in. He’d planned to stay for at least a week or two, maybe even three, and didn’t have the heart to leave his canine companion behind. The only steadfast relationship in his life really.
It was a few days before Declan even ventured out, having spent the first few going through his father’s belongings. Some of which had been his and Emma’s once upon a time... and some having even been their mother’s. Most everything had remained the same, as if they’d never left, and it was all untouched for months, perhaps even years for some things, evident by the coating of dust. Ultimately, it felt as if the house was occupied by ghosts, memories perpetually hainting every bit of space. Emma had come for the burial and stayed to get a few dire things squared away, but she couldn’t put her own life on hold for long. It had been dark and empty ever since, and at no point during the first few days of his stay did he even set foot in his old room. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn the knob of the door. Instead, he’d been staying on the couch.
When Declan finally forced himself to venture out, he visited the cemetery where both of his parents were laid to rest. He spent hours just sitting and staring at each of their gravestones in silence. There was a well growing within him, deep and empty and expanding beyond what he could even fathom. He couldn’t bring himself to speak or leave or properly mourn. He never had. He was entirely and irrevocably numb. They were like strangers to him now, distant, living only in the past. In hazy memories dulled and obscured by time. He wondered if he’d ever get clarity.
It was hours before he departed, opting to walk into town despite the graying clouds that had gathered overhead earlier. A typically gloomy Ireland day. By the time he made it to streets and surroundings once familiar to him, he was damp with the light rain that had begun to fall. He made his way to the pub his father used to frequent, entering unnoticed by the regular patrons that still inhabited the place. It smelled of stale beer and sweat and smoke. The music hadn’t changed much. He slipped into a corner booth at the back, keeping to himself. He found later on that there were pictures of his father hung around the establishment with other regulars and bartenders and the rowdy memories they had made.
No one there recognized Declan, much to his relief. They only knew of him. Nolan Tierney’s estranged son who had fled across the pond. Never visited or called or wrote. He didn’t make his reappearance something public, wishing more to observe and get a feel for the life he hadn’t been a part of.
After he’d made his way back to the house, he’d begun to write. He didn’t stop all summer, staying through the end of August. He made an understanding with his publishing house for his return in September. He was fleshing out a first draft by then. He never imagined he’d be published, having written more for himself as a way of coping and processing everything that had happened. Of coming to terms with and accepting it all. Of grieving. Of moving on.
It was one of the best decisions he’d made, not for the money or fame, but for his own peace of mind and accomplishment. Declan Tierney, the man who’d lived and died and came back to tell the tale.
Life: As I Know It. It read more like a work of fiction than an autobiography. The life of some poor character, not a living, breathing individual. But it was his, all his. His experiences, his choices and flaws and mistakes and consequences. His hard learned lessons. His love and pain. His fears.
It’s seemingly effortless, slipping through the fans that converge as soon as his departure appears imminent. Dean consciously attempts to put the encounter with Declan Tierney behind him and instead thinks on what awaits him in his small loft apartment. A warm blanket, tea, and a book of poetry to distract him from a bit of coding he wants to finish before calling it a night. This is his life–chance interactions that go nowhere and the stability of a calm quiet isolated life. It’s more than he can ask for, living the life that he has.
Surviving twenty-nine years as a severely and chronically ill individual is no small feat. And surviving well enough to claim a bicycle as his preferred means of transportation is even better.
Just as he hears the Irish-coated words meet his back, Dean frees his bike from its confinement. Dean turns, frowning at the writer-musician. “Didn’t think it was so clever as it was a natural–resolution.” If there’s one time the Brit hopes that his learnt smooth speech holds without devolving into his stammering he was so embarrassingly known for in his childhood, it would be now. “Are you looking for something? Did I forget to pay the whole tab?”
The look on the other’s face both amuses and disappoints the Irishman. Was he being serious? Weren’t they getting along in there? Unless Dean was just that oblivious. Quirking a brow, Declan merely shrugs and moves alongside the Brit. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I was actually enjoyin’ the chat.” He admits with a timid smile. “What part o’ town ya headin’ to?” Perhaps they could travel together and continue talking. It wasn’t every day now that he came across someone who didn’t ask for an autograph or picture. Someone who knew him a completely different way.
Although who he had been wasn’t exactly a person to be especially proud of.
“You were there weren’t you, Dean?” His own curiosity was getting the better of him. Such a question, or accusation even, was dangerous. It only gave away the fact that he’d been paying attention, close attention. Enough to recognize the man after having not even spoken to him. He felt embarrassed suddenly and hoped he wasn’t letting on to it, though he could feel his cheeks warming.
